The Wrath of the Beast
by MeltyPrincess
Summary: The Professor embarks on a journey to help a new friend save mankind.
1. The (Un)usual Letter

The letter arrived at the door just like dozens of others did daily. Luke took a moment to examine it before handing it to the Professor with the rest of the bundle. The envelope itself was ordinary, plain white with no unusual thickness or printed markings. What covered the envelope was quite peculiar however. Multiple stamps adorned the upper right corner, each one a different little picture: a kiwi fruit, a gingerbread house, a bell, a clover, a snowflake. The name was unknown to Luke, but the address was in America.

"What have you got there, Luke?" Professor Layton asked, watching as Luke turned the envelope over in his small hands.

"A letter, Professor, from the states!"

The Professor furrowed his brow as he took the letter into his hands. "The states? I haven't been there in years." He took a letter opener from his desk and sliced through the top of the paper.

The letter wasn't very long and was covered in looping handwriting, some bits left nearly illegible beneath the loops and scrawls.

_ 'Dear Professor Layton,_

_I do hope this letter has found you well. You worked with my father many years ago, Richard Rider. You helped him in researching ancient artifacts for his novel as well as clearing up the case involving him and the missing museum artifacts._

_Although he died five years ago, a box of his belongings only found it's way to my door today. It is filled with things I think you'd find interesting. All sorts of artifacts that seem down right cult like. There's bottles filled with dark liquid and all sorts of amulets. There's even a journal. At least, it looks like one. I haven't opened it yet, honestly I'm a bit scared to._

_If it turns out to be nothing at all, I'll gladly compensate your expenses._

_Sincerely,_

_Cynthia Rider'_

"Rider…Rider…Rider!" Professor Layton smiled as he remembered Richard Rider. A short bearded man with a zeal for knowledge. He always offered to run and get any book or piece of information that may unlock the secrets of history. Only if the Professor was willing to time him of course. If his run was quick enough, he'd be happy for the rest of the day. If not, he was dour for the rest of the week.

Professor Layton glanced at the address on the envelope and gave a slight nod. "How would you like to go to New York, Luke?" He handed the sheet of paper to his apprentice number one and watched as his eyes moved back and forth.

"You're really gonna take it Professor?"

"Of course, it sounds quite interesting." He sat back on his cushion on the couch and took a sip of tea. "Quite interesting indeed."


	2. Burger Grease and Memories

Cynthia sat in a diner booth, taking the response letter from her jacket for what had to be the seventeenth time. She unfolded it and reread it another two times before stuffing it back into her electric blue coat. Outside it was cloudy, cars of every color lined the streets. Even though it was day, the shining billboards advertising Broadway plays and Coca-Cola gleamed in their self produced halos.

The door bells twinkled and rang as the door opened. In the kitchen was a hiss of meat as it was dropped onto the hot grill. A man in a top hat accompanied by a boy in blue entered the diner. Cynthia quickly stood and tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear before approaching them.

"Professor Layton, yes?" She raised a dark brow.

"You must be Cynthia." He held out a tan hand and smiled. "Yes, I'm Hershel and this is Luke."

She shook his hand with a rough grip. Cynthis stood nearly as tall as the Professor did, and clad in assorted shades of bright colors, had quite a bit of presence. "Pleasure to meet you both." She nodded toward the booth she sat at before and took a trio of menus from their box. "Lunch is on me. It's the least I could do for you guys." Her scarlet lips formed a friendly, if intimidating, smile.

"Are you quite sure? It would be no trouble—" The Professor began to protest but she cut him off.

"Positive. Oh, and they don't serve tea here. Hope you don't mind coffee."

Luke opened one of the plastic covered menus and stared at the colorful displays. He salivated as he looked at the fried steaks smothered in sausage gravy, thick burgers on pretzel buns, pancake stacks dripping with syrup and honey. He glanced at Cynthia to thank her for her generosity but stopped short. As she concentrated, she appeared aggressive and nearly frightening. Her thick brows were lowered, forming a crease in between. Her lips were pursed and her green eyes appeared to have no color at all in the shadow. He shuddered slightly before she met his gaze. Instantly she grinned and the façade melted away.

"Ya know…" She started, moving down the faux leather booth to be across from him. "They have an entire section on just milkshakes." She turned the page in his menu and his eyes lit up. Dozens of combinations beamed up at him. The displays on the page were thick and topped with clouds of whipped cream and a glowing cherry.

"Thanks!" He exclaimed before reading down the list to find which flavor he wanted the most.

The waitress brought still sizzling dishes as Cynthia told them about the box. She dipped a French fry in ketchup as she spoke. "It's full of the most bizarre…BS," She glanced at Luke as she censored herself. "I've ever seen. There were these smelly rocks and a jar with what I am pretty sure is a preserved rat." She popped the fry in her mouth and covered it with her hand as she continued. "It kind of looks like some of my mom's old sh…stuff."

"What?!" Luke sat up, nearly dropping his gravy smeared fork.

"Would you care to explain?" Professor Layton asked as he sipped from his coffee mug.

Cynthia swallowed her bite of bacon cheeseburger and nodded. "When I was little, she used to do all of this real weird stuff. Sometimes I'd go to the kitchen and she'd be chanting while stirring dinner on the stove."

"Was it religious?" Professor Layton stuck his fork into a piece of fish.

"Not any religion I'd ever heard of. Maybe it was a cult or something." She shrugged.

Thunder soon clapped over head, causing all three to jump. Cynthia dissolved into giggles before eating her last fry, the spices on it sticking to her fingers. "You two better check into your hotel before the storm comes and you're both blown down 7th."

The Professor nodded and stood while Cynthia asked the waitress behind the counter for the check. "We'll be by to see the box tomorrow."


	3. Just the Right Touch

The box was dusty plum colored wood and the lid of the crate was propped against a polka dotted couch. Though the outside was dull, the inside was bright. Candy colored vials filled with liquid that bubbled or shifted from blue to green. The jar of rat sat near the bottom as Cynthia warned. That particular jar, yellow as lemon drops, remained coated in a thick layer of dust. Not a single one of the three had the desire to touch it.

Everything inside rested upon a peculiar layer of filling. There were dark feathers soft as eyelashes, the shells of cracked open peanuts, playing cards with 'X's drawn over the faces of royalty, and dried flowers that remained crisp and fragrant. Nothing was disturbed but a handful of the odd potpourri and the journal, which rested in a velvet jewel box adorned with a large opal.

"Most peculiar." Professor Layton said as he sifted through flower petals and peanut shells. Cynthia sat across from him, a pug named Campbell resting on her lap.

"Does it mean anything? I mean, playing cards, anarchist ones at that, and feathers?" Cynthia lightly scratched the drooling pup behind the ears.

"It sounds like some sort of spell." Luke said from where he stood, peering into the box to see if he could find something the other two overlooked. Perhaps a photograph or an heirloom.

"It is quite possible it could be random. But I don't believe it is. I think that this journal will have an answer." He pulled the journal toward him and examined it. The cover was black with strips of grey and white criss crossing it, velvet and silk and beaded satin. The beads were small, tiny things shiny as insect eyes. He placed his hand on the claps and twisted it open.

Except he didn't.

The silver clasp remained firmly in it's place. Luke walked forward upon hearing a confused murmur.

"Surely is hasn't rusted shut."

"Maybe it's some sort of mechanism…" The Professor scratched his temple as Cynthia reached forward.

"Do you mind if I give it a try?"

"Not at all. Be careful if it springs open." Layton pushed the journal across the table and Cynthia turned it so it was right side up. She reached toward the clasp.

Before she could touch it, it sprang open.

"It's open!" Luke smiled. The Professor reached toward the journal and the clasp closed once more, all on it's own. It remained unchanged, save for the slightly different positioning of the strap on the cover.

Cynthia narrowed her eyes and took the book into her hands. The clasp flew open once more and she opened the cover before it could change it's mind.

"Careful." The Professor heeded. She gave a nod as she slowly flipped to the silver edged front page.

'_Cynthia'_

She stared at it. The writing was familiar, but it certainly wasn't her own. She closed her eyes and could smell a scent that reminded her of home, peaches and rosemary and iced tea in crystal glasses. Her eyes opened and she turned the page.

_'My dear Cynthia…'_

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**_Please please give me a review and let me know how I'm doing! It's been quite a while since I've written fanfic._**


	4. Of Scented Oils and Silver Blades

_ 'My dear Cynthia,_

_ I wonder how long it has been since the world has stolen me away from you so cruelly. I miss you and watch over you from the next land._

_ I leave to you my bounty, all of my treasured possessions. Every precious amulet and herbal remedy in my collection. Please be careful with them, as they are surely antiques by now._

_With love,  
Mother'_

Cynthia read the letter repeatedly before flipping quickly through the following pages. More swooping handwriting and the occasional drawing or diagram. And that scent that made Cynthia shudder. It was her mother's home made bath oils. Maybe she would be lucky and a bottle or two would rest inside the box. They always made her skin feel like velvet and her hair shine.

"What is it, Cynthia?" Professor Layton asked her as she rad over the first page. She read it out loud, sure that the journal would shut itself up if she handed it to him. Like a toddler with a secret. "So it appears she left all of this to you."

"…I guess so. I always just figured she put it all floating down a river or something." She shrugged, "Though I am not keeping the rat." She grimaced.

He smiled, "Understood."

"Hey Professor!" Luke piped up, sitting up from the box he rummaged around in idly.

"Luke, it is not gentlemanly to shout. Especially with a lady in our presence." He gestured to Cynthia, who beamed at being called a lady.

"Sorry sir." He ducked his head down slightly before walking forward. "But I found something." He held out his hands. Clasped in his fingers was a leather satchel, the exterior soft and malleable from being opened and closed so many times.

"Would you like to take a look? As it is logically yours." Professor Layton looked to her. She gave a firm nod before taking it from Luke's hands. Cynthia placed it on the table and slowly opened it, gasping when the contents came into view.

Tools, a wide arrangement of varying tools. Tweezers and syringes and knives of varying size. All of them covered in the rusty crust of blood long since dried. "What the hell…?" Cynthia muttered. She took a short knife into her hand, the leather handle smooth and cool against her fingers.

The Professor picked up a smaller knife with his brows furrowed. "Cynthia, do you know what these are?" He looked at her and she shook her head, eyes so wide her irises looked like jade marbles floating in a glass of milk. "I couldn't be positive, but they look like modern day sacrificial tools."

"Sacrificial? As in goats, or…or…"

"Or people."

"There's no way my mom killed people. She could barely touch raw meat!"

"It's very possible that she came into possession of these, put them out of sight, and forgot about them completely."

"Right, that's probably it…" She nodded, unable to see her mother carving turkey on the holidays, let alone slitting throats.

The Professor stood and pushed his chair in. "We should leave you to look through the rest of this."

She nodded and showed them to the door of her apartment. "Where are you staying? IF I find anything important, I'll come to you."

He nodded in return, "The Edison, room 1226."

"Got it." The pair left the room with a wave.

Cynthia rooted through the box, but ultimately didn't take anything out. With nothing left to do, she took a shower and went to sleep.

Her dreams were not peaceful.


	5. A Dream Most Peculiar

_**Warning, there is mentions of blood and gore in this** **chapter**_****

* * *

Cynthia opened her eyes and looked around, seeing the sun filled kitchen the way it used to be. Plates depicting chickens and roosters hung on the wall, the cream refrigerator clad with alphabet magnets and postcards from relatives. She blinked before hopping off of her chair, her small feet landing on the tile floor. She was much smaller now, the top of her head only reaching the table. Her dark hair hung in braids down her back. "Mommy?" She called out, walking forward, down the hallway and toward the backdoor.

The screen swung open and she saw her mother hunched over, her slender form covered by a sunflower sun dress and a bandana keeping her ginger locks away from her face. "Mommy?" Cynthia repeated in a whisper. She wasn't heard. Her mother whispered as she held a rat in her hands. It wriggled, it's thick tail swinging like a rope, as it tried in vain to escape her grip.

She lifted one of the small silver knives and voices began to fill Cynthia's mind. They spoke words that seemed only nonsense, she didn't understand what they meant. They sounded like sentences, like words from a story she had never read. The shining silver dug into the soft fur of the rat's belly and it let out a shriek. Blood dripped down to the concrete of the patio, gathering in a poppy colored puddle. Her mother continued to mutter as she dragged the blade upward. Blood stained her soft, rosemary scented fingertips and cords of red began to spill from the wound, hanging like jungle vines dangling above a cement jungle.

When the rat stopped wriggling, she let it's body drop. She perked up as she heard quiet breathing from the doorway. She looked over, Cynthia's tear stained face staring at her in horror. "Cynthia!" She stood and began to walk over, holding out a pink smeared hand. Cynthia jerked back and began to run.

She opened her eyes, panting and sweating as she sat in bed. Cynthia looked around, slowly recognizing her apartment. Campbell slept soundly on an orange slice cushion in the corner of the room. She could soon make out the shapes of her pottery wheel, her makeup bag, her perfume bottles on a table. The words still echoed in her head. She shot up and ran across the room, picking up an eyeliner pencil and a pad of paper, writing the words down before they faded from her.

'_Drizzle….Moon…Rot…Universe…Potter…'_

When she finished she scrunched the paper up in her hand, slid on her shoes, and ran out to the street with her phone tucked into her bra. She sprinted through the rain that drizzled over head, wrinkling her nose as she smelled something foul. '_Maybe the sewers overflowed_' She thought as she finally saw the gleaming sign of the Edison.

Once inside she walked straight to the elevator, ignoring the half asleep attendant who finally gave out a snore as the door slid open. She stepped inside and pressed the '12' button repeatedly, waiting for the elevator to move.

The moment the door slid open she ran through the halls, scanning the room numbers for the one Professor Layton informed her about. Once she saw it she pounded on the door, not a care in her mind about being rude. Not when her heart raced and when she closed her eyes she could still see her mother with blood on her fingertips.

"Cynthia, what could possibly be the matter?" The Professor said when he opened the door, still with bed head and in orange pajamas. His nose wrinkled and he inadvertently took a step back. "My apologies, but…"

"Yes, I am pretty sure I reek." She stepped inside and shoved the balled up note at him. "I don't know how though, it was raining when I got here. I should be smelling pretty nice."

He smoothed out the page and read it, then reread it. "What is this?" He lifted the yellow paper as Cynthia sniffed her sleeping shirt and gagged.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?"

He shook his head and pointed to the door that lead to the bathroom. "Not at all."

"And I will give you a dollar to go wash these clothes." She pointed to her slowly stiffening clothes. He nodded after a moment and she disappeared inside of the door. In moments a trash bag was handed to him from the crack between the door and the door hinge. "When I get done, I'll tell you everything."


	6. The Reason Behind the Bitter Rain

The somehow putrid rain continued to fall over New York as Cynthia sat in her freshly laundered clothes, still warm from being tossed around in the dryer. She sipped from a cup of steaming hot tea, letting the steam ghost across her face. The Professor inspected the smoothed out piece of paper, nearly all of the wrinkles gone so the normally disastrous writing was a bit more legible.

"Maybe it's an omen of sorts." Luke peered over the Professor's shoulder, inspecting the odd words and wondering what they meant. The young boy read them aloud, "The drizzle of effluvia, the snuff of the moon, the grounding of the winged, the rot of the crop, the halving of the universe, the death of the potter. What does that all mean?"

"What's that one word mean, Professor?" Cynthia asked, holding the warm cup to her chest as if it could still her heartbeat back to normal.

Professor Layton walked to his suitcase and opened it, fishing out a dictionary and flipping through the yellowed pages. "I assume you mean effluvia, correct?" His dark eyes sought out Cynthia's own sage green ones. She nodded and he flipped to a page. "Effluvium, plural effluvia; an unpleasant or harmful odor, secretion, or discharge."

"So…you're saying that it's raining pus? Or might as well be." Se shuddered, remembering the thick fluid flowing down the drain, the smell blending together with sweet cherry blossoms.

He grimaced and glanced out the window, at the yellowed clouds. "In a sense, I suppose."

"That's disgusting!" Luke exclaimed, standing near him and watching as thick droplets raced down the glass.

"Why though? I mean, what good could it do?" Cynthia tucked her legs beneath her. When she closed her eyes she could see flashes of the dream. The struggling rat, the puddle the dripped over the edge of the patio, her mother reaching out for her, ivory fingers nearly brown from dried blood. She shook her head. She wanted to just forget it. Though what if it was important? "Professor…" Cynthia started, lifting her head.

"Yes?"

"Erm, I had a dream… I don't know if it's important, but it told me those words…"

"Describe it Perhaps it was some sort of premonition."

"Maybe, I guess…but Luke has to leave first."

"What? Why?!" Luke grimaced.

"You're a little young for this, Symphony in Blue."

"I'm 12 years old, I can take it!"

"Luke, perhaps it's for the best. If there are any details of importance I won't hesitate to tell you."

Luke pouted but walked to the door that separated the main area from the bedrooms and stepped through, pulling it shut behind him.

Cynthia took a deep breath and told the Professor everything she had seen.

"Perhaps it's a repressed memory?" The Professor stroked his chin and let Luke back into the room.

"It couldn't be a prediction…or anything." Cynthia said, "Mom died a while back. Plus in the dream I must've been eight at the very least."

"It would certainly explain the tools found in her box. Is there anything in the journal about any of it? Not just the rat, but the words as well."

Cynthia shrugged and leaned back in the arm chair. "I don't know. I haven't looked past page one. Though I do know where she got the rat in the jar now."

The Professor copied down the note she brought with her and handed it to her. "Should we find anything in our research, contact at once." Cynthia nodded and grabbed her things.

"Of course. I'll look through everything when I get back." She pulled her hair back and secured it with a rubberband as she walked to the door of his room.

In the lobby she called a taxi and waited inside, watching as tehs treets crawled with people running to their destinations with umbrellas and newspapers held over their heads. A homeless man with a grocery cart held a sign.

When she slid into the taxi she could read the crooked, smudged handwriting, raising an eyebrow as the vehicle began to move.

'_Beware the beast.'_


	7. Instruction on World Destruction

'_September 2__nd__,_

_Today I did as the great Beast asked me to, I sacrificed a living creature so we may continue living on in peace. What I did not expect to see, what Cynthia watching me. I called out to her but she ran away. Poor thing fell and hit her head on a chair! I was horrified! Luckily the doctors said she only has a concussion. She'll be furious at me for making her stay awake. Cynthia always did love to sleep after all._

_ It seems that she forgot what she saw earlier today. For that I am both thankful and worried. What if by some miraculous mistake, I somehow made her fall? What if the blood magic I temporarily had made me force her to fall and forget it all?_

_ I just wish she could understand what it was that I was doing. I was keeping her safe, I was keeping everyone safe. If everyone that follows the Beast, makes the sacrifices when he asks, then all is well. Then humanity is spared. It is done only once every 20 years. That is when the Beast feeds on the flesh of the fallen._

_ I can hear Richard's car pulling into the driveway so I must end this entry short. I hope Cynthia will be alright and that the bruise on her forehead goes away quickly. School pictures are only in a couple weeks, she would be humiliated if her picture showcased a bruise covering much of the top of her face. Until tomorrow.'_

Cynthia stared as she read and reread the entry that rested around ¾ of the way through the journal. It actually happened? She really did watch her mother sacrifice an innocent creature? She couldn't believe it! Her brow furrowed as she reread the passage one more time. What would happen if the sacrifice wasn't made? What did it have to do with the pus rain that plagued New York? She walked to the window and watched as it continued to fall. In her hand was the note that the Professor copied down and gave to her. "A drizzle of effluvia…" She muttered as she pressed the note against the note. What would the other things become, why did the putrid rain come down?

What did the other things mean? What exactly was halving of the universe? The apocalypse? Would the great galaxies split into two?

"What the hell does it all mean?" She tossed the journal across the room, where it landed on the tile with a satisfying thud. Cynthia walked over to her pottery wheel, it faced the window and she could see the street lights' halos and the shadows of those running for cover. With a grimace she pulled the curtains shut and flipped on the television as she took a wire string and cut free a layer of clay from one of the many wrapped rectangles stuffed into a closet.

Cynthia made things, she made teacups and vases and sometimes even figurines if given enough time. She made them for anyone who asked, rich and old, young and aspiring. Pots of colored glaze sat on their own table, each with their own brush to avoid accidentally mixing colors. Bigger buckets of more intricate glazes rested on the floor, brick red and bright blue. She even had a squirt bottle of salt glaze that created a mirror like sheen when out of the kiln.

She was given an offer for an art show, it would feature an auction and many people would see her work and maybe even commission her. It was a dream. But she hadn't even started on the auction pieces yet. Cynthia tied her hair back and began to spin the wheel, spreading water over the surface and plopping the clay down in the center.

The sun was rising as Cynthia stretched and walked away, satisfied with her work. Droplets of watery clay littered her face and her hands were covered with it. She walked past the journal, still crumpled on the floor, to wash her hands when she saw a piece of paper sticking out. It was older than the rest of the pages, nearly brown and crumbling at the edges. The paper was nearly see translucent. She dried her hands and slowly picked up the aged paper, scanning it.

On it was a diagram, a sphere cut into multiple pieces, like an orange into wedges. There were roman numerals and the words Cynthia heard were once again written along the top edge of the page.

The page read like directions, the steps even numbered as if for convenience.

It wasn't instructions though, it was an order. Step by step for the world's destruction.

'_Twenty years and no sacrifice has been made, then the wrath of the beast will come upon man and woman alike and no child shall be spared._

_ The signs are written in stone and in soul, to be enacted by the beast, each one lasting a day. No more and no less. When the final sign is enacted, the apocalypse shall truly begin and the world shall burn and fall to pieces.'_

The bottom half of the page was missing, torn away by a mysterious force. Heart racing, Cynthia set the paper down on her kitchen counter and quickly dialed up the Professor and Luke.

She didn't believe in horror stories or superstition, but now she had proof.

The world was really going to end.


End file.
